


The Gifts We Give

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Gift Fic, Heartwarming, Some of this is specific to a certain RP thread so it might not make the most sense to others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: "I love you."In which you have more than you think to give, and Emet is delighted to receive.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader
Kudos: 37





	The Gifts We Give

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiei/gifts).



It’s not as high up as it is by his office… which you can see from here, you think. Maybe. If you looked harder you might be able to, but for once, the window you might have been able to spot is dim; the occupant long since returned home. 

Ironic, how he can see his own workplace from his balcony at home. It's a lovely thing that overlooks much of the city, bright lights all over, all lit up for Christmas Day.

You finger over your gift nervously, a small box wrapped in the prettiest paper you could find.

Anything money can buy, Emet already has. Anything you could give him that didn’t cost money, you’d already given. So you had to get creative; you had to give him your _thoughts._ Your feelings. Pick some trifling thing he could have bought for himself, but one that showed how you felt, how often you had thought of him.

He unwraps it easily, almost cautious with the paper, fingers flitting about it to tear it in straight, neat lines. It makes a satisfying noise to be torn through, falling apart in angled shapes as he reveals the small velvet box underneath.

When he opens it, sitting in the center of the satin is a small milk chocolate truffle.

Emet blinks. You meet his eyes with a wink and a smile of your own, grasping the candy between two fingers. 

“I found a café that just opened very recently; they make all their own chocolates from scratch. So when I bought truffles from there, I knew it would be something you haven’t had before, at least not exactly…” Your nerve is failing you, watching him watch your fingers holding the chocolate up.

“There is,” You say, swallowing between phrases, “There is more, obviously! I got you a whole box-”

“Under the couch by the coffee table, yes.”

Heat creeps up your face. “How long have you – did you know what it was?!”

“I suspected – but I did not know, no. I caught it underneath, but of course did not open it.” Tilting his head to the side, Emet gives you that sneaky little half smile he knows you love so much. “Hyth told me it would be one of those bath and body wash boxes. I remember them still, from college days, in the supermarkets. Most of them were for women, but he was quick to remind me they had them for men, as well.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

It was about the right shape, wasn’t it? Large and square. But still – getting Emet one of those dumb pre-packaged retail gift boxes of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, that sort of thing – the idea just _tickles_ you.

An idea for next year. A little gag, an in joke, until you find something else –

You swallow as your mind races ahead of yourself, suddenly shy. But Emet’s still smiling at you warmly, with eyes like honey, dripping over you, thick and clear in his sentiment.

“Love,” His voice is as much a chocolate to you as the one in your hands; smooth and rich, melting over you in a relieving heat, “How long do you mean to taunt me, holding that in front of my face like this?”

So cruel; your heart is pounding away in nervous embarrassment and he teases you so. You muster up a glare, meeting his eyes with annoyance, shoving the treat forwards to press into those lovely dark lips that curve to smile against it.

In the back of your mind, you know your chest is lighter for his words. That’s why he said them.

Warmth blooms over your fingers as Emet leans to take the whole chocolate in his mouth, wetting your nails in the process. The man never did change, did he?

It’s enough to bring a smile to your face even with this recent stumble. Even the sight of his tongue ticking over your fingertip as you pull away only entices another giggle, as he closes his mouth to savor the sweet.

“Do you like it?” You ask as he finishes it up, watching his face closely enough that he rolls his eyes and gestures for you to wait.

“ _Do you like it,”_ His voice is nasal and mocking, but filled with humor all the same, “How, pray tell, am I supposed to answer such a question _while_ I am eating the ‘it’ in question?”

The back and forth soothes you, his familiar teasing pulling you forward, propelling you on.

So you curl your hand back down, before you lose your nerve, to grasp the trinket out of the box, lifting it from its place on the tiny satin sheet.

Emet looks down to the tiny treasure cupped in your hands, attention solidly caught.

Of course it’s not – of course it isn’t an actual treasure. Nothing fancy. You couldn’t buy him anything like the sort of thing he’d normally wear; nor would he be willing to accept it if you could. Emet was always trying to give you material wealth, heaven forbid you try to return some of it.

Deep inside you know it’s because he just has _so much._ It’s still sort of bizarre, being with someone to whom money meant almost absolutely nothing. You’ve worried about it all your life, and now you… don’t have to. Your pride is far too great to let you just take anything, a fact of which Emet is well aware… and determined to work around.

But still… still, even if you don’t have a lot of money… even if you don’t have some brilliant skill that you can use to craft something for him, even if you can’t think of anything funny or useful or heartwarming… even if you couldn’t do any of that…

You could at least do _something._ Just this one thing.

In your hands rests a pair of cuff links. They were _nice_ – well-crafted and nice looking. Not some great designer, but that wasn’t the point at all.

The metal is not particularly impressive. A muted bronze lacking entirely in redness. Very understated and buffed well enough to not quite shine, but pleasantly smooth to the touch.

In the setting rests a specially crafted pearl – not quite dull, but not shining with the normal radiance of the material, it must have been treated or coated with something. It looks almost like marble, dull and very pure white, not the faintest hint of pink or any sheen of color.

In particular, it matches rather strikingly the shade of the earring you had seen Emet wearing nearly every day. The metal matches it just as well, though it had been harder to see with the bare circle it made around the pearl.

That’s what caught your eyes about it, really. Immediately the color reminded you of him, seeing them, and you’d stared at them for several moments before you’d stared. You’d bought them back months ago, even, with the plan of giving them to him if you couldn’t think of something better…

You feel your fingers curl over it even more, cool metal barely a touch on your frozen hands.

But there’s immediate recognition on his face; you even see his hand ghost up a bit, almost as though to brush against the earring, even as his lips part in questioning.

“Cuff links?” There’s no dismissal in his voice, nothing but affectionate curiosity, but somehow, you’re still on edge.

Swallowing, feeling more and more like this was – what a _stupid_ idea this was, you’re so stupid, why did you get him this, he deserves so much more, so much better –

He deserves an answer, too.

“I uh,” You swallow again, hard, “I just… a few months ago.” It would have been better to get him something else. “I saw them somewhere in some shop and I just.” This was such a dumb idea, so lazy. “They made me think – I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” Why couldn’t you think of something _better?_

Stupid, stupid –

Hands, warm on yours, cut off all lines of thought; your head jerks up to meet his eyes. Liquid gold runs over you like his breath against your face, like the hands that brush away the chill, that curve over your fingers and carefully grasp your proffered gift. Metal heats quickly to his touch, your own skin quickly following.

The smile on his face is blinding.

“And for that I am profoundly grateful,” The words reach your ears but don’t compute, and even if you were to puzzle them out, Emet leans in, body head closing towards you, pressing onto your front.

He bends forward just a bit, pressing his lips carefully to your forehead. They’re soft, tender, but affection pours from him to you like some physical thing, chasing the cold from your body, sending your tense muscles to relaxation.

You draw back your hands; he’s got your gift fully in his grasp, cradling it carefully like it’s some sort of treasure.

“I think of you often, too, you know.” The smile he gives you is crooked and beautiful and makes you want to cry in a completely different way from moments ago. How can he turn your mood around with such a careless ease? “It is a gift, indeed, to know – to have _evidence,_ even – that I am in your thoughts, as well.”

A dam bursts in your chest, somehow, and you feel full – too full, overflowing with love. How could it be that Emet is yours? How he knows just what to say. How he _treasures_ you.

How he treasures _you._

Just as he is treasured.

“I,” Your breath seems heavier, sucking in cool air that seems to linger and swell in your lungs, “I’m always thinking about you. I tell you that all the time.”

“So you have said,” There’s a wry tilt to his smile that makes your heart _ache._ “And I have always believed you… but now you have shown me, let me see with my own two eyes,” He rolls one of the links minutely between his fingers, “Feel it in my own hands.”

Emet’s hand closes over them, whitening further with the sudden strength of his grip.

“Later, I will look at this, feel it on my wrist, and be reminded – wherever you are, whatever you are doing, no matter what is happening… you are thinking of me. I will be there with you, in your thoughts.” The _look_ he gives you, so genuine in appreciation and heartfelt warmth, has your eyes glistening.

You didn’t realize how cold your face had grown until his other hand raised up to cup it, wide over your jaw, nearly burning at the contact.

“I’m,” You say, “Glad.”

And you are. You’re very glad; reaching up to hold his hand over your cheek, that touch filled with care and longing, always reluctant to part. It’s large and smooth, elegantly refined as he holds your face, then slowly, carefully pulls his hand back.

Placing the links back in their case with a practiced precision, Emet places the box aside your gift and pulls out another, smaller box, from his coat pocket. 

It’s small enough to fit in your hand, where the cuff links had come in a fancy case much too large; this is not nearly so embellished or refined, much to your surprise. It’s a smooth metal case with a clasp at the front, one that looks like you might take it out of the house with you.

Emet’s lips twist before you as he almost frowns at it.

“I did not think you would want – I took Hyth when I went searching. He was, predictably, entirely useless.”

You laugh, “Don’t be mean! I’m sure he was only trying to help.”

“Yes, his suggestions were _very_ helpful.” Sarcasm drips from his voice as he crosses his arms at you. Emet’s brows are drawn together and his jaw is slanted in that adorable way that you know means he’s trying to pretend he’s annoyed instead of just pouting. “ _He_ thought I should buy you a strap on. Or that tentacle thing _._ And then that set of restraints, all those leather straps and buckles.”

Hyth, why.

“Did you-”

Golden eyes glitter at you in bright mischief, “Would you have it so?”

The answer, whatever it is, chokes you from inside your throat. It’s rather hot outside for Christmastime isn’t it? So hot.

He laughs at you, the wicked man.

“In any case, I got tired of ruling out his suggestions… and my own. Everything I looked at appeared patently inadequate.” A strange look crosses his features, not unlike a shadow – of doubt? Reflection? What _is_ his gift?

“It was watching him brush back his hair, again and again, that brought the idea to mind.” The look in his eyes is suddenly familiar as that gold flickers down to the box and back up to you; nervousness. “I considered a number of things, you must understand. We searched for hours, then went to some other place another day. Even after I had this idea, it took several days to find something… appropriate.”

The thought comes to you – Emet and his best friend, walking through absurdly debonair shopping malls. Into stores selling designer jewelry, running his eyes over necklaces, bracelets, earrings worth tens or even hundreds of thousands. Examining them all with those beautiful golden eyes.

Searching, searching, for something he deemed worthy of you, something he would present to you on this one night. Imagining to himself what your face would look like upon seeing this gift.

“Something that…” His pale, gaunt face looks warmer than it should. You don’t think you’ve ever seen his smile so… gentle, so round and barely curled at the ends, almost hesitant. Or his cheeks so full of color – and not just from the cold. “Reminded me of you.”

The box clicks open, and suddenly you couldn’t care less what was inside. Your eyes are on his face, on his smile that nearly wilts under your gaze, on his eyes that glance back down once more, as if pleading with you to follow.

“If you do not like it-”

You don’t know what kind of expression you’re making – but you can’t let him think this. Without even a moment’s pause to think, you step forward, once, and then again, right into his arms, crushing the box and the gift between you as you hold him.

Your hands go straight to his face, capturing his jaw between them, feeling those smooth, beautiful features under your fingers, feeling his cheeks slack with surprise even as perfectly sleek lips part before you.

Pulling him straight into a kiss, you hold him right against your mouth, closing your eyes even if he does not. His skin is flushed, and warm – so it’s not from the cold at all. Those lips on yours press back, heated and supple. Applying clever pressure just tenderly enough to soothe the chill.

How many heartbeats pass, you’ll never know; you wouldn’t bother counting. Thumbing over his jaw, stroking it as you move your mouth over his, lazily tangle your tongue with his, slipping it under and his over, tasting away at the faint hints of chocolate.

Sweet and full of flavor. Bursting with a rich personality, perfectly recognizable from even the smallest traces. Creamy and smooth at the core, as gentle to the tongue as his lips are now, pursing lightly over yours in a tease as you pull away.

Emet pushes you away, gently, and you follow his gaze to look down at his own offering, sitting in that small metal case.

You stare at it for one moment, then another – it’s clearly jewelry. Two long, thin pieces of silver, seemingly unconnected to one another.

The upper one is in the image of a serpent, curling and twisting about a pair of blooming flowers, all in all about as long as your finger. At the heart of each flower is a smooth, round stone, set in a ridged ring of metal clearly meant to mimic the appearance of a natural flower, curling around the stone in a tiny but exquisite display.

The snake’s body passes under the flowers, but its scales are delicately engraved in the metal, diamond-shaped. They are not perfectly uniform, tiny as they are, instead bearing faint colors that seem reminiscent of a pattern, though the flower petals cover too much for you to be certain.

On the one below, the metal is curved. It’s in the shape of a crescent moon, but stylized – the tips of the crescent come especially close to one another in a shape that is immediately familiar. Each tip tapers to a sheer, delicate point, leaving just a bit of space between them; the metal itself is a brushed silver with an intentional texture to it, slightly grainy and with a faint gradient, growing darker at the center of the moon than at the ends. Your shoulder seems to tingle, just looking at it.

Tugging your gaze away is the feeling of a hand gently touching down on the side of your face and pressing forward. Further and further it drifts past your cheek until you realize he’s caught a lock of your hair between his fingers, brushing it back, past your ears.

You blink, and immediately realize – back in the case – they are hairclips.

“The moon,” Emet began, pausing until you looked back up at him – his eyes are on your shoulder, “I saw, and thought of you. I searched for _quite_ a while, let me tell you… Through no small number of stores, in all sorts of places. I had no intention of purchasing some expensive rock and sitting back, satisfied with my thoughtful present. But once I saw the crescent-shaped one, I was at once reminded of you, and I knew I – I wished to see your face, when you saw it, when I gave it to you.”

What does your face look like, now? You can’t even imagine – it feels – it’s so –

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst. It’s not a light feeling; more like a weight settles into it. Benign and just barely noticeable, a comfortable weight, soft inside your chest, radiating a warmth that seems to dissipate in your blood, carry out through every fiber of your being.

The pleasant feeling courses through you, never quite leaving the center of your chest, but still spreading throughout. It pulls and pulls until you feel the irresistible urge to step forward, to throw your whole self into him, hold him close so he could feel the heat of your chest against his.

But you stay still, as much as you can, letting him finish. Your cheeks _ache_ with the weight of your smile; it’s so cold, the night air is freezing and yet your face is blazing hot under that intent stare. 

“After I saw that, it gave me the idea for the other, which I had specially made.”

It is unlike anything anyone has ever done for you; handcrafted, indeed, put together with you in mind at every step. He must have been thinking of you each moment, holding the clip up in his hand, the idea dawning on him to commission your second present. Going through the process of its design, rejecting anything he deemed inadequate, making this or that modification upon further thought, upon further glances.

You imagine him, picking a crescent moon out of thousands of options, and then having the other one crafted. Laying the two of them down, together, on the velvet backing of the case and clasping it closed, anticipation written all over his features, and that impossible hint of tenseness – of _nervousness_ –

Wetness pools in your eyes, furious blinks only forcing the tears to dot in the corners, faintly damp against your skin.

“Thank,” You say, “Thank you.”

There’s more to say, you’re sure, but the words escape you; you look at his gift for you until the sight grows too heavy to behold, then trail your eyes up to his face. The gentle curve of his brows, lowered lashes, mouth twitching blithely as he raises his gift a bit higher.

“Ah,” Emet tilts his head to the side, the corner of his lips lifting up, just on one side, “Lovely. I told you, did I not? You look absolutely _beautiful_ with your hair tucked back, so.”

The air on your bared ear and neck is cold, but his hand lingers for a moment. Fingers barely slipping against dark strands, slowly, earnest gold boring into your eyes. His face blooms in gentleness that is almost like vulnerability; soft and tender, affection written all over him.

“Such a lovely, deep black, it is, against the pale of your skin.” Sighing, a sound that fills the air almost as much as the sound of your heart beating. “Flowing past your cheeks and well below your chin, with your bangs, cut right above those eyes, dark and drawing; smoothly rounded and curved in their elegant beauty.”

You are suddenly painfully aware of the meeting of your gazes; but his hand on the side of your head, fingers tickling low at your jaw, stay any movement.

“I could look at them forever and not grow tired. Oh, how you _enrapture_ me, love.” The word comes out in a low breath that warms your face, has your lashes fluttering despite how intently he holds your stare.

Your arm lifts enough, not to the box, but to his hand at your ear, laying your palm over it. The feel of his fingers stretching and curling delicately over your hair, holding and dragging carefully along with guided intent. Intent to _feel_ every bit of it.

“Thank you,” You say, and, realizing you’ve said that already, you grope for another response. “I love you.”

It feels so simple, so small and unworthy –

But _oh,_ how he smiles to hear those words, in your voice, said _to him._

“My gift pleases you, I expect?” The haughtiness in his words is empty, his voice melting to the touch like the chocolate you’d tasted on his own tongue. Smile still clear on his face.

“Yes!” The word feels so painfully adequate, despite your crying it, so you try to gather yourself, just for a moment.

You curl your fingers over his hand, grasping over to just barely touch his palm, feeling the tiny tremor in his hand from the touch of your clawtips; one you know is from a familiar thrill, an excitement that dances across his eyes before it is chased off by anticipation of your response.

Wetting your lips with your tongue, air immediately cooling on them, you think. What to say to a gift like this? It’s – it’s beyond words, but just the _thought_ – how much he _cared –_

How much he _cares._

Another blink, and another, and you feel wet tracks trickle from your eyes. “It’s – they’re beautiful, Emet. I love them. I love how – how perfect they are. How you chose this, made this, just for me. I love it so much.”

The tears flow a bit more freely, “I don’t deserve-”

His hand pulls forward from the hair he’d tucked back, just ghosting over the curl at the top of your ear. Following the line of your jaw to press your chin and tilt your head further up to keep his gaze as he closed the distance between you, setting the gift to the side.

Those golden eyes meet yours with such love and tenderness – you just want to cry even more.

“And why is that?” That voice that flows like honey, coats your shoulders like a blanket in the cold, soothes over you, “Why do you not deserve this, hm? What do you need to do to deserve this?”

The tears just fall even faster. Even blinking them away you can’t quite – you can’t quite think of anything appropriate to say, you don’t want to sour the occasion with your own personal failings –

A warm embrace tears you from your thoughts, enfolding you in his arms; one goes behind your back to press your body flush against his, and the other shifts into your hair to press your face into his chest.

You lean into him, slowly, at first, as he pushes you forward, and then fully, falling forward onto him, a weight he bears with ease. Emet is always doing that, always bearing you, and however much he loved you and claimed not to care, you wish you – you wish you weren’t quite so _heavy,_ you weren’t such a pain, especially to someone who cared so much.

Tears meet cloth – designer, naturally, and probably worth more than anything you owned – quickly, drying your face. He doesn’t allow you to pull you back, holding you hard and fast. Holding you to him, tightly, with arms so tense you fear they might tremble if you tried to pull away.

“What do you need to do?” He asks, a low but lilting sound above you.

More questions you can’t answer. You don’t know.

Those arms curl around you, more and more, and squeeze sharply, almost tightly, before loosening. Then a hand rises to lay atop the crown of your head, heavy but soft over your hair.

It makes its way down, moving with deliberate slowness, as though to make you feel every inch of the motion. Fingers curl into your side, gently but still present, from where his arm wraps around you. Your own arms are trapped between you and him, warm between your bodies.

“What do you need to do?” Emet asks, stroking down your hair as he speaks, “Or rather, I should ask: what more _can_ you do? Nothing comes to mind. The happiness you grant me, my dear, is already far beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Tear tracks chill your face as you look up at him, even with proximity heating you up.

“It’s not,” He shouldn’t think this is because of him, “It’s not about you… It’s just that _I_ don’t-”

“This may be something you need to claim for yourself,” Emet interrupts, brushing aside the confession you have already made, “But if you believe you have _nothing_ to offer other people – if you believe you are _undesirable_ or _unlovable_ – then your belief is false as a matter of fact.”

That hand trails far down your hair, shushing you in long motions, rising back up to curve around the back of your head in a steady press before it follows your locks back down.

“I know.” Bright eyes seem to pierce you, gaze right through you, and you find your attention fixed lower, on his collar. “I know how you feel, I really do. I _believe_ you, I swear. It’s just – it’s just me, I’m – I’m messed up, I’m not right, I should be able to take your words for what they mean, for real.”

This time he lets you babble away; the words flow freely, unlike before, emotions taking shape in your mouth and emerging in hateful speech. It’s almost worse than having nothing to say. You don’t want to be like this around him. His arms are still warm around you.

“If you believed that _I_ thought any of those things about you,” Emet says gently, “You would never have opened yourself up to me as you have.”

Fingers curl into the fabric of his coat, silken against your fingertips. Pulling taut at the press of your nails.

“I know, I just,” How to explain, when you barely understand, yourself? “I just, feel this way, sometimes. It’s not your fault, it’s not anyone’s fault, I just… I have to deal with it myself.”

“Being loved is not the same as feeling loved, is it? You can hear my words and know that I do not lie, know there is evidence for all I say, and still believe yourself unlovable, because you _feel_ unlovable.”

It’s terrible, but you’d said so already. It’s terrible, but it’s true, and you wish – you really do _wish_ it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” You say, even though you know he does not like to hear it. “This is – we should be talking about happy things. It’s Christmas! And you, you got me such a wonderful gift…”

Trying not to think so hard about inadequacy, about your own gift. You can’t even look at him.

“I could tell you over and over again, how much I love you,” The time that picks up is almost musing, one that softens the edges of the meaning of his words, “I could compose sonnets, you know, of the things I adore about you. You are not the _only_ one who took English classes in college.”

Somehow, from somewhere inside you, this pulls a laugh. A small one, a short one, but still a laugh, nonetheless.

“Is that what you like? Should I have written you a sonnet?” You say, half-joking, because you don’t believe you can really make anything worthwhile, but you’ll try, for him. For love of him.

There’s laughter in his voice in return. “Well, if you have one composed, it would be rude to refuse…”

You laugh, again, louder and more freely, and then stop yourself from saying sorry.

“I’ll try,” You say, instead, “I’ll try and do better, next time. I don’t know if I can write a sonnet, or anything, but I’ll – I’ll do better. I’ll be better.”

It might be hard, it might take a while, but you’ll – you can be better. You’ll pull yourself together, even if it’s just a little. Be the partner worthy of his love.

There is a moment, and then another, of silence, where tension builds in you for no reason you can quite tell.

“Then let me tell you something good.” Emet lifts your face by your chin, smiling at you, eyes kinder than you had ever imagined they could be. Soft and warm and honeyed sweet, just for you. “When you saw that gift? When your eyes ran over it and you realized it was made just for you, that you were in my mind the whole time I spent getting them?”

Hands cup your cheeks, which have grown too hot and red for you to notice any longer; only his palms keep the numbness of the cool air from setting in, pressing down by swollen eyes. You must look terrible right now.

“Y-yes.” You say, the image of the gift flashing through your mind again, like the heat in your chest and in your heart, the memory of a flood – of a dam since burst, welling up once more.

He’s still smiling at you. Breath warm on your cheek as he closes in, the arch of his brow a gentle and open curve of affection.

“I felt the very same, when you gave your gift to me.” He says, thumb wiping at a stray tear with all the tenderness in the world, with the same clingy touch you know and love.

With a smile so genuine and loving, each finger on your face tracing lines of sincerity over your skin, tiny caresses that pull you in as much as they stroke over you.

And all you’ve got left in your mind is his words, _felt the very same._

The… same?

In your chest, before, that warmth and delight that had permeated the whole of you – that is how _he_ felt, too?

“That feeling? This,” Whispered words, you feel them on your lips as well as in your ears, washing over your heart, “This is what it feels like, to be loved.”

The resulting kiss is sweet for reasons now entirely unrelated to your gift to him.

**Author's Note:**

> To my dear friend, for whom this fic was written:
> 
> If you think I am good with words – then let it be said that even _my_ words cannot express just how glad I am to have made such a friend as you. I cannot thank you enough for all the encouragement, heartfelt admiration, good-natured teasing, chatting about our shared interests, and most of all, your wonderful company!
> 
> Merry Christmas, my dear! May your holidays be carefree and rejuvenating! Whatever ups and downs this year has had, I count myself especially blessed to have met you this one. Next year is gonna be even better :)


End file.
